


Don't Bury Me

by Mylo



Category: Glee, The Hunger Games
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylo/pseuds/Mylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Evans is chosen as tribute for the Hunger Games. His mentor, Kurt Hummel, promises to help him survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

When Kurt Hummel had been chosen as tribute last year, he had, in fact, counted himself dead.

He was a district ten boy, and hardly an impressive one. He wasn't as strong as the boys who tilled the fields or herded cows. He hadn't spent years learning what plants were helpful and what killed, and his father had tried to teach him hand to hand combat once when he was young, but Kurt had only ended up with a bruised shin and the vehement denial to ever spar again.

He was not, in the eyes of the capitol or his district, a strong contestant.

But he did have the will to live. He had a family back home, a father who he needed to care for, a brother he'd only had for over a year. He'd seen his life fall apart in front of his eyes once, after his mother had died, and twice after his father had gotten deathly ill and had only survived by a miracle. He was almost used to the hollow feeling, the cold adrenaline in his veins and the need for control. He wasn't the best at shooting an arrow or setting a snare, but he'd made it this far in life.

If the capitol wanted to kill him, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Most of the experience was a blur, one he chose not to try and remember. The ring had been a deathtrap of inedible plants and rabid creatures, and he'd spent most of his time avoiding other tributes and staving off hunger with the meager pack of crackers that he's snagged from the cornucopia.

The first kill he made was a fish he'd corralled in a stream, with a messy and unsure stab that had left it tasting like mud and bones in his throat.

The last kill he'd made hand been a boy from district three, who had followed the trail of hastily laid traps Kurt had made to his campsite, with a clean and precise blow between the shoulder blades that had him on the ground and bleeding out before he'd realized he'd been hit.

Three weeks he'd spent in the arena, the three longest weeks of his life. He'd entered a scared, motivated, but by all appearances helpless, teenager, and had emerged a blank, damaged, no longer helpless victor.

He'd thought the games would be over once he got home. He hadn't accounted for the taste of the arena, the sound of it; it's very essence, following him home in his mind.

Nightmares plagued him, memories he couldn't force down or forget. He'd hear the screams, the cannons. Faces would flash by him, unrecognizable with dead eyes and filthy skin. He'd wake up, shaking and covered in sweat, unable to eat or think or feel.

The worst was his family, who watched him slowly unravel and couldn't fathom how to help. They asked him if he wanted to talk about it and he said no, asked him if he could stomach a small meal, but everything tasted like capitol crackers and he said no. They asked him if he was okay, and he only swallowed the 'no' on his tongue and tipped his chin up, nodding the question away.

And after a while, he'd thought that would be his existence, living in constant remembrance, never able to get over the things he'd seen or done.

It was around his third month home when he'd met Sam.

Technically, he'd known of Sam for a while. He'd seen him around town and in school, his family had supplied chickens in trade for Kurt's father's pigs, but they'd never really talked. Kurt vaguely knew his name, and that his family was poorer than most, even by their district's standards.

Kurt had been about the town, needing to get out of the cage that he'd come to see his home as. He was weak, physically and emotionally, and not watching where he was going. That was when he'd bumped shoulders with a boy carrying a box of little yellow chicks.

Luckily the box had remained in tact, though Kurt had stumbled backward and landed on the ground with a small thud. The boy apologized profusely, putting down his cargo and helping Kurt up. It wasn't until he was grasping Kurt's hand and pulling him up that Kurt realized he didn't remember the last time he'd touched another person.

"That's, that's okay." He'd stammered, blinking the jumbled thoughts out of his mind and focusing on the boy's face. Vaguely, the name registered in the back of his mind.

"I wasn't really watching where I was going."

"No, it's fine." Sam had replied, taking in Kurt's thin, waifish frame. "I was walking too fast with these guys anyway."

It was then that Kurt peeked down and saw the box of squirming yellow balls of down in Sam's arms. They moved around impatiently and peeped their disapproval at being crowded, and a particularly bold one climbed atop its bothers and tried to hop free, only to jump into Kurt's cupped hands.

"Oh." Kurt had gasped at the feel of soft feathers and rough little feet in his hands.

"He likes you." Sam had joked, and Kurt had smiled. Later, it would occur to him just how long it had been since he'd smiled, but in that moment he wasn't thinking about anything but the ball of yellow in his hands and the boy in front of him.

"Well." Kurt had said, words having trouble placing themselves in his mouth. This was the first time in months that he'd wanted to talk, and he couldn't string together a simple sentence. "I- I guess he does."

Sam adjusted the box in his hands, smiling back at Kurt.

"Do you want it?" He'd asked, "It's jumped out like three times now and I really don't think it'll be missed."

Kurt surveyed the chick in his hands and nodded, realizing that yes, he did want this because it would make him happy, a thought he hadn't had in weeks.

"Um, sure." He said slowly. "I should pay you, though. I've got plenty at home and-"

"No, it's fine." Sam had replied with a shrug. "It's on the house."

And he'd started to walk away after that, and Kurt's stomach had lurched. No, he didn't want this boy to be gone. He didn't want the feeling the boy gave him to be gone. Pressing the chick to his chest, he followed after him.

"Wait!" He'd called. Sam Stopped.

"If you won't let me pay for this," He'd said, catching up, "Maybe I can pay for a coop to be made? And… maybe some company for the little guy?"

He'd watched Sam's face, the smile he gave at the offer and the way his hair fell in front of his bright green eyes. Sam had shrugged a little; trying to look calm despite looking thoroughly overjoyed, and replied, "Okay, sure. But I'm gonna be late so… I'll find you later, okay?"

Kurt nodded, knowing there wasn't a person in his district that didn't know where he lived. When he had turned away his cheeks felt warm and he was still smiling and his heart was hammering in his chest. But as he ran a fingernail across the little chick's soft back, he really, really didn't mind.

After that, things sort of fell into place with Sam.

First he spent long summer days constructing a well-made coop in the back of Kurt's home in the victor's village, and Kurt spent hours out in the sun with him, watching him work or reading while he listened to the methodical pounding of Sam's hammer against wood. For a while it was awkward, Kurt wasn't used to wanting to be in someone's company or start up a conversation, but Sam made it easy.

Then, slowly, they began to talk. First about safe topics. Things like the pregnant sow kept in the pen at Kurt's old house, or if the earth outside Sam's home would be healthy enough to grow a few carrots or potatoes. And when they ran out of bland, time-consuming chatter, they talked about themselves each other.

Sam loved music, and Kurt had a voice like pure silver. Together the two would carefully combine their voices, finding songs sounded better when sung by the both of them. Sam wasn't particularly well read, but Kurt had always enjoyed a good book, and would lend them to the boy without hesitation. There was a narrow margin for clothing in the agriculture and cattle district, but Sam was always happy to let Kurt fuss with his collar or style his hair, as was Kurt's passion.

Later, when Sam confessed his reading skill was lackluster at best, Kurt would read to him out in the warm summer sun.

They talked about the world outside their district, a world where the games didn't exist to leave long plaguing scars, where they could live long happy days throwing fate to the wind and watching sunsets on the beach.

Their days were spent with each other, either spending long summer days walking around town, or Kurt accompanying Sam to his home, where he'd begrudgingly agree to gather the eggs from the hens and keep watch of Sam's little brother and sister. Slowly, their worlds opened up to fit each other in, and even glances from Sam's mother or Kurt's father told them that they recognized something special taking place.

They belonged to each other. They talked, learned, and explored every part of each other's mind.

There was only one topic they didn't approach. One Kurt didn't let them talk about.

But when the time came, when someone out in the town center had felled a pine tree and the smell of its sap made Kurt's stomach lurch as the boys trekked from a sweets shop back to Kurt's home, they talked about the games.

Kurt talked, specifically.

A lot of the experience he'd shoved into the corner of his mind, unwilling to remember, but he found there were plenty of things he had to say once he got going.

He talked about how he hated the smell of pine, as it reminded him of starving alone in the woods with only pine needles and boiled water to live off of. How even using a knife to cut into a loaf of bread made his hands shake, or how some nights he would go without sleep, fearing the dreams that plagued him.

In his room with Sam next to him, he'd called himself a murderer out loud, though the word had long been stamped on his conscience.

And at first, Sam only listened, nodding occasionally and looking surprised. One or two times he'd tried to say something to offset Kurt's claims, but in the end he decided comfort was best given physically, as he moved his arms around Kurt's tense, frightened frame. Kurt felt the warmth of his lips on the shell of his ear, whispering that no, he wasn't a monster, he was human.

And for the first time Kurt felt himself lean into the touch, let himself be held as someone whispered the opposite of everything he saw himself as. Sam told him he was a person who felt guilt and remorse, who had been put through something awful and had come out alive. That he was a good person, one of the best people Sam knew, who had been put through something awful.

Kurt wanted to believe him. Just staring into his eyes he could tell the boy meant every word, but guilt and nightmares had become his constant companions, and all he could do was nod.

"I know you don't like yourself." Sam had told him, wrapping his hands around Kurt's, "But I like you. I think, I think I love you."

And while Kurt still wasn't sure if he was monster or human, while he couldn't bring himself to believe what Sam had said about his time in the arena, he knew one thing for certain.

"I love you too."

Sam called him hummingbird, and he called Sam bumblebee. And they were happy.

So Kurt guessed he should have seen it coming when Sam's name rang out into the open air and the boy looked up, meeting Kurt's eyes before he even had time to look scared.

xx

"Sam Evans!"

It's almost funny. Out all the things that could run through his mind at this moment, the first thing Kurt thinks when he hears the name called out is that it's not fair because Sam is only a year younger than himself. Not that this can't be happening, that it must be rigged, but that Kurt can't be expected to train someone who his nearly his own age.

His second thought, though, is only the piercing sound of the wind as Kurt's vision goes white and he thinks he sways a little on his feet.

There's no noise in the crowd, not even a cry from where Kurt knows Sam's mother is.

Screens search the crowd of matching blue shirts and ducked heads, but Kurt sees him first. Sixteen years old, a son and a brother. Arms strong and tanned from working with the cattle, hair that's a summer-fed blonde and a frightened face with round green eyes. Kurt tries to think of something to say, but a second later Sam's elbowed into the open air and he's looking everywhere but at Kurt.

When he begins to move forward his eyes are on the ground and his mouth forms a thin line. In the still air, crunch of his boots on gravel echoes eerily around the townspeople. Slowly, his steps take him closer and closer to the stage, and Kurt can see that he's shaking, casting glances to his right and left, surrounded by everyone he's ever known who watch him with tear rimmed eyes.

The capitol representative doesn't take notice as she grins into the microphone.

"Come on up to the stage, Sam."

Kurt's been dreading standing on this stage for months, wearing the title of "Victor" and "Mentor" like it's a thing to be proud of. Not to mention having the life of someone else tossed into his hands. Now he's watching Sam with collected, calm posture and a blank face, doing everything in his power to keep from lurching forward, reaching for the boy, taking his hand. He keeps his composure though. He can't imagine how that would look, considering he'd hardly flinched when the fourteen-year-old female tribute had started crying as she faced her district on stage.

That was different though. Kurt doesn't even know her.

She's not the boy Kurt loves.

Sam takes the stage, faring better than his female counterpart. He looks like he could be sick at any moment, he doesn't smile like he's supposed to and he shifts slowly from foot to foot, but he manages not to break down long enough so that the overzealous Capitol citizen can congratulate him on the honor, (Kurt is once again glad he's mastered the art of not batting an eyelash at these games,) and privilege of representing District Ten in the forty fifth annual Hunger Games.

She's beaming as she announces to the crowd the terms they already know. These two teenagers, one fourteen and one sixteen, will be taken from their home and thrown in a fight to the death with twenty-two other teenagers. Kurt nods when he's referenced as a previous victor. He keeps his features flat and slightly disinterested as always, and even claps politely as he'd been instructed to do.

When the tributes are escorted off stage, Kurt looks out to see the two little blonde heads of Sam's siblings turning and rushing for their mother and father, calling out to them and clinging to their legs. When they look up, it kills Kurt to pretend he doesn't know Dwight and Mary Evans, and that he's no more emotionally invested in these games then he was before the tributes were reaped. He keeps his façade until he's beckoned to leave, but before he leaves he turns back he meets Sam's parent's eyes. They stare at him begging silently. Bring him home.

Kurt keeps an eye on the swathe of people returning to their duties, peacekeepers and district folk swarming like ants, making sure no one's watching. Then he tips his chin up and nods.

They don't know how little of an option anything else is.

The only response is Dwight taking his wife's hand and leading her and the little ones away. Kurt knows they've reached an agreement. Between the Evans family and Kurt, the borders of Sam's life have been reached, and only one of them can bring Sam back.

I will. Kurt promises the family, as well as himself.

Kurt isn't permitted to see the tributes before they reach the train, which he supposes is a good thing, considering all he wants to do is find Sam, hold him, lie to him and tell him things are going to be okay. He knows that right now Sam is secluded somewhere, saying goodbye to his family, no doubt begging someone to keep an eye on his family's chickens and crops, saying he'll do his best. Kurt doesn't let himself think about Sam telling his family he'll try not to die.

The bored, detached look on his face lasts all the way to the train. Kurt keeps eyebrows perked and jaw set until he finds his cabin. That's partially how he'd won his own games, really. Every time he'd panic or want to run, every moment the audience would see him as a weakling, he's swallow his fear and tip his jaw up, and then later let it all out as he dragged one of his twin swords against another tribute's stomach. He hadn't known the trait would follow him home, but as of now he's glad it did.

When he's certain he's alone, Kurt collapses in the car and buries his face in his hands.

xx

Sam finds Kurt's train car in a matter of minutes after they take off and collapses into the boy's arms. He's shaking, his entire body shivering in under Kurt's hands. Kurt can already feel damp spots on his shoulder where Sam rests his face, can only think to hold him tight, his own stomach churning.

At first he wants to do nothing but this, just hold Sam. He wants to hold him for the rest of the train ride at least, if not the rest of his life. But he knows better. Dwelling in the terror they both feel will get them nowhere, and Kurt is tasked with teaching Sam how to survive. Coldly, he detaches himself from Sam's arms, hardly surprised at how well his face once again takes up the dry, disinterested look that comes whenever Kurt internally gathers himself up.

He looks Sam in the eyes, jaw set. The water in his eyes is threatening to spill over again, but he fights it back. Sam is having no such luck, droplets springing from the corner of his eyes with every blink. Kurt fights the urge to pull him back into an embrace.

"You're going to win this, Sam." He says, because it's the only sentence he can muster. Sam nods, but there's no hiding the utter defeat in his body. Kurt repeats himself, louder and more clear, reaching out and grabbing the boy's shoulder.

"You're going to win. I won't let you lose. I won't- I won't let them take you from me."

Kurt's resolve is hard as diamonds and he's spent months holding things inside, learning how to make it so that the world could fall around his feet and he wouldn't bat an eyelash. Now though, as he digs his nails into Sam's skin and begs him to listen, he can feel himself breaking. There's a tide of emotion spilling over in him, and for once he's wondering if he's strong enough to hold it back.

"I'll try Kurt, I-" Sam's hardly got four words out before Kurt snaps, his voice coming out a scared, choked sob that he doesn't think he's ever heard himself make. Water bursts from his eyes as he shakes Sam's shoulder, hard, and demands his attention.

"No, you are not going to try, Sam Evans. You are going. To win."

He'd hoped to sound intimidating or inspiring, something that would boost Sam's morale and convince him he's got a fighting shot, but all he succeeds in doing is collapsing into Sam, who manages a weak agreement before sagging into Kurt's arms. And they stay like that for an amount of time neither of them know, minutes or hours or somewhere in-between.

At some point they run out of tears and whimpers and just sit still, breathing in the smell of the others' skin, occasionally squeezing a hand or readjusting a head to fit better in the crook of a neck.

As time goes on though, one thing becomes clear. Neither is willing to let go of the other.

xx

It takes Kurt a little while to notice, but at some point he turns to look, and finds that Sam's fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Despite himself and the situation he's in, he smiles.

With his messy hair and tired face, Sam looks almost like a tuckered out child. Kurt smoothes his hair and moves out of the way, fingertips buzzing with the unusual sensation that Sam brings up from him. Just seeing him ignites a desire, a drive, a passion that he has for Sam's survival comparable only to the passion Sam brought back into Kurt's life. There are moments where Sam feels like Kurt's everything, and Kurt knows to lose him would be to lose himself.

Even on a train speeding towards the capitol, towards a competition where the odds of Sam coming out are one in twenty-four, Kurt doesn't let himself think about Sam dying.

Kurt pulls away gently, letting Sam fall into the soft cushioning of the cab's bed. He doesn't stir, and Kurt can't imagine how exhausted he must be, the stress of two younger siblings being up this year, and then himself being chosen. Kurt's mind ghosts over Sam's life, having worked sixteen years raising chickens and shucking corn, building a life for himself and those around him, only to have it all taken away at the draw of a name. The feeling is so close to Kurt, one he remembers so well, that he can't imagine waking him.

Kurt knows with unsettling certainty that this is one of the last peaceful sleeps Sam will get from now on, so he gently lets himself out and shuts the door behind him.

xx

Kurt's first priority is to get to a mirror. It's no secret that he's an appearance driven person, but the mussed hair and damp, pawed at clothing isn't what worries him. Sure enough, his eyes are red and puffy, his nose glaringly so. He stares into his reflection, willing his face to go back to normal, but the angry red stays. It, like everything else around him, is a constant reminder of what's going on, of what he can't escape.

He wasn't just crossing his fingers and hoping out loud when he said Sam was going to win. He knew, from the second Sam's name had been read, that he would do everything in his power to prepare him. Some mentors in the games were disinterested, or had long since given up the hopes that their tributes would last the first day, but that wasn't Kurt. He was sure part of it was arrogance, the fact this Sam was Kurt's first tribute, as well as the most important, but when he'd been drawn, Kurt knew he was going to win.

If he and Kurt hadn't been as close as they were, Kurt was almost certain that Sam's name wouldn't have been called. And if Sam slipped up in the arena, Kurt knew it would be another layer of blood splashed onto his own hands.

But he isn't thinking about Sam dy-, no, losing.

Assuring the life of his tribute means many things though. Foremost, Kurt knows he can't keep thinking of Sam as he knows him now, the boy with the golden hair and emerald eyes who talked Kurt into hanging a rope from the tree in his back yard so his siblings would have a safe place to play. No, Kurt knows that Sam too well, he loves that Sam.

The Sam that will be entered into The Hunger Games will have to be tribute Sam, the boy who has experience in craftsmanship and who can wield a sharp object at close range. The Sam who looks unassuming and sweet, and yet has been raised to snap chicken's necks for dinner and fight with steers, who is athletic and durable and all things considered, isn't the longest shot in the competition.

Kurt knows separating himself from the boy he loves will be difficult. Sam is like gravity to him most of the time. But he knows it will be worth it in the end the last thing he sees of Sam isn't his body getting lifted into the hovercraft.

He hopes Sam agrees. Turning a blind eye to him and his ways will be impossible if Sam doesn't put every part of him into winning.

It all feels so surreal, the day's events, the thought of teaching Sam of all people how to kill, the games themselves feel like one long nightmare.

Kurt checks his face one more time and deems it suitable to be seen by other people. He sighs into his reflection and the glass mists over.

If this is a nightmare, he's more than ready to wake up.


	2. Two

When Kurt exits the restroom car, he smells the tempting aroma of breads and meats from the meal car. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he's hardly had a bite to eat since the day began. The sun is setting now, the sky a warm, rosy pink. It's breathtaking, the world moving around him, and for a minute he wants to get Sam, show him one of the sunsets he'd dreamed of.

That is, before he remembers that he's not thinking of Sam like that anymore.

He hovers outside the meal car, the decorated glass hiding him as he looks in, seeing the blurred shape of Sam, along with the female tribute whose name Kurt doesn't even remember, and the capitol escort chatting with them. He can't see Sam's face, but he can't imagine he's anything but gray and scared. And part of him wants to enter, act as though he hadn't broken, that he is just another mentor with his tributes, but he doesn't think he can. Even facing Sam knots his stomach.

He makes a note to ask someone to deliver some sweetbread to his room, and goes to lie down.

xx

He doesn't have the luck Sam did in falling asleep. It's always a 50/50 chance with Kurt that he'll either fall into a dreamless dark void or relive whatever memory decides to slide its way out of the vault in his mind. He's lucky, considering his surroundings, that the smells and shapes that terrified him once before do little more than keep him from falling into a deeper sleep. More than once he's jostled awake and reminded where he is and what's going on. He doesn't appreciate it.

After his third time fumbling back into consciousness, he gives up and moves into a sitting position, peeking outside his window. It's dark, past midnight but with morning still far away. The world is still moving past at a startling pace, the trees and mountains a dark blur, only the moon stationary in the sky. Goosebumps raise on Kurt's arms as he thinks about last year, about the last time he'd been on this train, watching that moon. The fear and uncertainty isn't new to him, no, he's felt that all before. But now there's something extra, something new.

There's a curiosity inside of him. Something Kurt's felt often, but never been able to act on. This is the first time, realizes as he hugs his knees close, that he's ever been able to slip away unnoticed. That he can find Sam, talk to him, without fear of curfew or punishment. It's the smallest pinpoint of light Kurt can find in being on the fast track to the capitol, but it's one he dwells on.

He knows he shouldn't. He's just decided that Sam is just another tribute after all. But his skin itches and his feet twitch and finally he rolls his eyes, uncurling his body and putting his feet on the floor. He and Sam make a point of seeking out each other when they're upset. Why should this time be any different?

Kurt opens the door and takes three steps out before he recognizes Sam's silhouette a few feet away. He can't see his face, but the slope of his shoulders is familiar, as is his nervous, stiff posture. The boy jumps a little at first, hands rising in the dim light in a silent apology, but once Kurt takes a few steps forward he relaxes, dropping his arms.

"Hey, where'd you go?" He asks, sounding hurt. "I woke up and you were gone, and then they told me I could see you after I ate, but,"

"Sorry." Kurt interrupts him. "I wanted to see you again. But I couldn't. Let myself."

"Let yourself?" Sam asks, crossing his arms. Kurt's once again reminded that so much of Sam's life is placed in his hands, and that things like purposely avoiding the boy can't be good for his morale. Guilt stabs at him again.

"Well this is all a lot to handle!" Kurt barks, his voice breaking the hushed tones they'd been speaking in. "And I knew if I saw you again I might start crying again, and how would that look in front of the capitol lady? I just needed some time to think. I'm sorry."

His body is threatening to go weak again, his face no doubt breaking its usual disinterested mask. He feels almost lucky that he's broken around Sam before, and he doesn't feel the rush of embarrassment that would usually follow such a display.

Sam keeps his arms crossed, unmoving for a moment, before dropping them and stepping forward. Kurt mirrors him, wanting to be closer.

"It's...well, okay." Sam replies. He's still frowning and watching Kurt closely, but he doesn't look too upset. Kurt tells himself again that this really is all about Sam, about what he needs and how he'll present. Kurt's problems don't matter anymore. Kurt's problems are Sam's survival.

They stare at nothing for a few seconds, and then at each other, and finally Sam ducks his head, moving to close the gap between them. Kurt instinctively falls into his open arms and it's like every embrace they've ever had, simple and natural, and the feel of Sam's heartbeat against him and the smell of Sam's hair clears Kurt's head.

"Well at least we got all that emotional stuff out of the way." He tries, and he feels Sam's chuckle against his ribs.

"Well then I guess we're set." Sam jokes back, and Kurt grips the fabric of Sam's shirt. He doesn't want Sam to talk about it, when Sam talks about it everything feels too real. The hope that it's a deceptively detailed nightmare is fading by the second.

Kurt swallows the lump in his throat and pulls back.

"I am your mentor, you know." He says, habitually running his fingers down the top three buttons of Sam's shirt, righting the top and middle one that Sam always flubs. "And I meant it when I said you were going to win."

"I know." Sam says hesitantly. It kills Kurt to hear the weakness in his voice, the little pause before he agrees. That, Kurt decides, is something he'll have to train out of him.

He takes a small breath, squeezing Sam's hand and stepping backwards.

"But that means we can't do this. We can't be…this."

Sam watches him, frowning. "Be what?"

"Together." Kurt manages, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He sees Sam flinch a little and he feels another pang of guilt.

"You're my best friend, Sam. The best person I've met, next to my family, you're the most important person in my world." He continues. "But I can't train you thinking like that. You can't go into the arena thinking about me."

Sam shifts from foot to foot, staring at Kurt in the dim light. "But I can't not think about you. You know, I love you and stuff?"

Kurt's heart beats faster. He has to bite his cheek hard and remind himself this is not the time for romance.

"And I love you. But the love between two people isn't what wins games. Concentration and hard work do."

Sam nods again, still not a foot away from where Kurt stands.

"So what does that mean?"

"It means ," Kurt says, "That we can't do what we did before. We can't break down, or break stride. I can see you don't believe in you, but I do. But I know a winner when I see one. You have your strengths and if we can cram in enough work, you can beat them."

Sam's eyes are locked on his and somewhere along the line his hand had found its way to Kurt's, fingers threading tightly into the other boy's grasp and clinging for dear life. Kurt squeezes back, gritting his teeth because they're holding on so tightly it hurts, but they aren't going to let go.

"But that means you need to stop seeing me as anything but your mentor. I'm going to teach you everything I know, and you're going to be my tribute. Nothing more."

He wishes he could add more, that if Sam doesn't win it will still tilt his world off axis, that every moment he'll have to look at Sam with anything less than his heart in his eyes will be a moment wasted, that he loves Sam more than he knows how to, and that more than anything is why he has to do this. But Sam's curt nod and deep breath tells Kurt that he understands, or is trying to.

"Plus, there's no telling what the Capitol will do if they find out a mentor is in love with a tribute, not to mention, you know…"

He tries to think of words to finish his speech, but instead gives in to something he needs more than rationality and logic. The hand not clasping Sam's own slings around to boy's shoulder, and Kurt presses his lips to Sam's desperately. Sam makes a noise of surprise before pulling Kurt close, returning the gesture. This isn't their first kiss, but it feels like it has more weight and meaning than any they've had before.

Kurt knows they'll reach the capitol tomorrow, and then the games not long after. They'll be under the public eye endlessly; never able to be anything but pieces in the games, toys for show. He breathes the smell of Sam in deeply and holds him close until his lungs burn with lack of air.

They break apart finally, a silence hanging between them. This is it, their last moments where Kurt can look at Sam like he's the sun and Sam watch Kurt like the moon. The next time they see each other it will be as mentor and tribute, and neither will fight it.

"Goodnight bumblebee." Kurt whispers.

He turns to head back towards his sleeping car. Sam follows.

xx

"We need to weigh your strengths and weaknesses." Kurt begins the next morning, pouring a cup of hot coffee. Sam sits across from him, plate piled high with eggs and bacon. He watches Kurt, curious, as he continues.

"You're a farm boy, you're well fed, and you're strong. You're no career, but there's enough muscle to work with."

Sam nods, tipping his fork into his plate and taking a bite, and then digging in as his hunger awakens. He shows no signs of familiarity past polite attentiveness, nothing that would suggest that he crawled out of Kurt's train car just before sunrise and made it back to his room with minutes to spare. Kurt shares this attitude, face blank, voice detached as he talks Sam through strategies.

Next to Sam, the female tribute watches, her face blank. Kurt had talked to his old mentor; the woman who had trained him for his own games called Sue, and come to a barbed agreement that he would focus on Sam. She didn't like it by the look in her eyes, but she agreed.

As Kurt lectures Sam, she reaches over and gives her own tribute a pat on the wrist. Kurt doesn't notice.

"You'll be good for close range combat, but that will only get you so far. We need to find out if you can throw knives or shoot an arrow. And traps, you'll need to learn to set them without losing an eye. Oh, and plants. Listen, golden rule of plants, if you don't know what it is, don't put it near your mouth. Are you listening?"

Kurt tips his chin up at the sight of Sam, watching him with slightly glossed over eyes. He knows that look, it's the look he gets when Kurt talks to him about something like ducklings or sewing. It's a look that usually makes Kurt feel warm from fingertips to toes, but not today. He puts down his cup and raises an eyebrow, his expression cold enough to snap Sam out of it his own thoughts. The boy jumps to attention, taking a bite of bacon and nodding.

"Yeah, I'm listening. It's just a lot, you know?"

"Yeah." Kurt replies, telling himself not to bend under Sam's stare. He forgets sometimes that Sam's not an academic, and learning the science of the games will be a challenge. Another mental note, another thing to focus on. "It is a lot. But so is coming out of that arena alive."

His tone does the trick for Sam and he nods, running a hand through his hair. He swallows a bite of breakfast and gives Kurt an honest stare. That's more like it.

"So what do you think we should work on first?"

"You'll get a good amount of physical training in the Center." Kurt says, raising a finger to make invisible checkmarks in the air. "Find what you're good at and run with it. You already know how to skin and gut things, so you should learn just a few basic snares to keep yourself alive. When we get time to work together, I'll do my best to teach you what's edible and what's deadly."

Sam chuckles into a mouthful of toast, catching Kurt off guard.

"What?" He asks, "Could make you smile at a time like this?"

"Nothing. It's just," Sam replies after a pause, "It all sounds so simple. Learn this, go here, do that. Nothing about going out to fight to the death with one in twenty-four odds."

The reality is hitting him, Kurt sees. It happens a lot in the time leading up to the games, little pockets of time where everything seems so possible interrupted by the crude reality of what was actually going on. It's tough for all tributes and Kurt forces himself to swallow his pity.

"Well," Kurt hums in a dry tone. "That comes into play once you get in the arena. Until then, we should see what damage you can do with a scythe…"


	3. Three

The Capitol looks just as Kurt remembers it, and it makes him feel sick. Not for the first time, memories beg to be released from the shadows Kurt has shoved them in, and it takes more strength then usual to suppress them. This was no time to break down, he tells himself. This is Sam's time. And when Sam gets home, safe and sound, then he can feel things for his own benefit again.

Sam's taken away as soon as they arrive and Kurt shivers with the memory of being plucked and preened to Capitol standards. He's a person who loves to look his best and even he had hated the way his makeup team had yanked and twisted him into one of their creations. He doesn't let himself imagine Sam, put in that cold metal room, getting his eyebrows plucked and his sun bronzed skin scrubbed pink.

He wishes he could be there with him, even just as a mentor.

xx

They do, of course, make Sam into the pinnacle of human desirability. He was already a handsome boy, but with his softer hair and brighter eyes and fuller lips (a feat Kurt did not know could be achieved,) he looks like a hero that a daydreamer would think up to accompany them on imaginary adventures.

Sam sees Kurt as he's getting ready to board the chariot, dressed in a somewhat flattering one piece suit that Kurt assumes is trying to read "Cattle herder" even though it more or less reads "Look at the defined muscles underneath this thin fabric!"

Kurt approves.

There are people swarming around them, busy capitol workers and tributes and mentors, and it isn't long until Sam is sideling up towards Kurt, face blank and businesslike, but a smile threatening his lips.

"Would it be out of bounds for a tribute to ask his mentor how he thinks he looks?" He asks. Kurt rolls his eyes, adjusting his own suit and looking around before replying "Of course not. You look good, if not a little bland."

"Better than last year, right? A certain horse outfit-"

"Okay." Kurt snaps, laughing. He doesn't like to think of last year, not at all, but when Sam talks about it the memories burn less. That, and the tribute parade isn't what he's blocked out completely.

"You look fine. But you need to keep up the attitude. The air you give off is that of a sweet, simple farm boy who spends his days chasing chickens or shucking corn. Keep it that way. The capitol likes the unassuming ones."

Sam nods, rolling his shoulders and letting out a breath of air.

"I'll do my- I will." He corrects himself, as Kurt had instructed him to. Half-hearted promises don't win games.

"Good." Kurt says, reaching out and putting a hand protectively on Sam's arm. "I'll be watching, so impress me."

Sam's eyes brighten and he nods as though in sudden understanding.

xx

He manages to outshine his district partner, at least.

He rides in with that shy, lopsided smile and waves, but he hardly stands out among the other tributes. He looks taken aback when his face is broadcast on the banners that surround him and that earns him a polite chuckle from the crowd, which he acknowledges with a polite head tilt. Kurt watches the crowd react to him, nodding as they seem to think of him well enough before getting wooed by the district eleven tributes.

At one point Sam looks backwards, searching among the rows and rows of people, and Kurt knows he's searching for him. He tries to ignore the constricting in his chest, the broken hope that getting to the capitol and getting down to business would somehow make wanting to be near Sam easier.

xx

They don't talk much for the rest of the night. Kurt has plenty of things he wants to say to Sam of course, but very few of them have to do with plant identification or rock throwing. He says little things, reminding Sam to add something green to his plate or warning him about capitol showers, but it's always short and offhand. Sam notices and spends a fair amount of their time together watching him, waiting to be addressed. Even when Sue speaks to him, or he's addressed by the capitol assistant, he's got his eyes trained near Kurt's hand on his fork or something above his head.

Kurt can see that Sam's having just as difficult a time not caring about him. To help, or to keep himself from going crazy, he excuses himself from dinner early and asks not be disturbed, and pointedly sleeps in past breakfast the next morning. He feels cruel doing it, like he's ignoring some mentor duty, but he also knows that Sam will understand.

When he's sure the coast I clear he walks out of his room, checking the wide spaces for anyone but Avoxes, before striding towards the elevator. He wants to see Sam. No, no see him, just, observe. Make sure he's doing okay in training, that he's taken Kurt's advice and is learning snares or fire building or-

But he doesn't get a chance to see Sam. It turns out that while the tributes are hard at work, their mentors get dragged around the capitol, talking up their tributes, bragging about their strengths and goals. Instead of watching Sam, taking notes on tactic and ensuring his survival, Kurt finds himself in front of a dozen microphones, answering questions about everything from his home life to Sam's chicken farm.

"What would you say the odds are, of your tributes?" Asks a small man wearing a lime green suit. Kurt's heart hammers and he reminds himself that the capitol doesn't know about him and Sam, and that he has to act as detached as possible.

"One in twenty four, of course." Kurt replies. "They have various strengths, and if they can learn what they need to, I wouldn't put it past them to see it to the end."

"This is your first year as a mentor, how do you think that will reflect in the way you teach your tributes?"

You mean, besides the fact that I don't let myself think about the previous games and how I've swore to one of them that he will win and that I don't know the other one's name?

"I think the experience is still fresh, and it paves a way to give guidance to them that might have faded with past winners."

"The male tribute, Sam Evans, he's only a year your junior. How does that reflect in your relationship?"

Relationship.

Kurt couldn't have been more thankful to himself and his dedicated mastery of the stone face. Keeping his eyes bored and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from blushing, he gave the most nonchalant shrug he could.

I'm terrified. I can't lose him, and I'll do anything it takes to have him win. Anything.

"I- I know what it's like for him, to be young and frightened. It's given us good ground to work with, because we see the world very similarly. But I don't think there's a strict advantage just because we're somewhat similar."

His legs feel wobbly when he's allowed to walk away. The crowd seems satisfied with his answers, if not a little bored, and Kurt decides it's better than accidently letting them know that they're in love. On the way back to the tributes area, he convinces himself that Sam's natural charm will do the selling for him. It worries Kurt that the only ways he can talk about Sam are either cold and detached, or like he's the sun moon and stars. The lack of middle ground is troubling.

After a long day of talking about Sam and giving vague answers to whether or not he thinks the boy will survive in the arena, he's antsy to get back and see how Sam is doing. Everything feels so real in his mind, there's no other way things can go. Sam has to win. Talking so casually about the possibility of Sam dying makes his stomach tie into knots. Spending all day doing it while Sam is nowhere to be seen makes him sick.

He regrets not bidding Sam farewell this morning. He needs to see him. Now.

He's the first on back at the suite, followed soon after by his mentoring counterpart and Sam's stylist. He's nearing the point of insanity when finally the elevators ding introduces the district ten tributes, and Sam walks in.

Kurt waits for Sam to see him at the dinner table, currently scattered with documents about sponsorships and things Kurt should pay attention to, but isn't. Instead he looks up to see Sam approaching him, expression blank. He's not limping or bruised, and Kurt's not sure if that's a good thing or not.

"How did it go?" He asks casually. Sam nods, shrugging.

"It wasn't bad. Well, I mean, I learned how to build a fire, and I tried to set some traps."

Kurt nods, ignoring the want in the back of his mind to run up to him, tell him he missed him, grill him for tactics between kisses.

"And weapons?" he asks, monotoned.

"They had some stuff. There was a scythe, but there were others who could shoot arrows or use axes."

"That doesn't mean you're counted out." Kurt answers a little too quickly, and Sam's eyes widen. Kurt catches himself before he starts to over think things and stammers out, "I mean, people have won with rocks before. Tell me more about fires."

They talk about the training center, about threats and targets, though Sam swears he'll never kill a person, about the snares Sam learned and gradually Kurt stops thinking about the things he said earlier, or even about Sam losing. Kurt confides to Sam what he said in the interviews and tries to play it off so the people in the room don't take notice, but Sam's slow blink and subtle nod tell him he understands. It's all for show.

Sam leans in after looking around to make sure no one's paying attention. His voice is low as he asks "But did you mean it? You think I can win?"

Kurt almost laughs. How can Sam not understand how much faith Kurt has in him? How losing isn't an option, how he would bet more on Sam's victory then the chance of the sun rising in the morning? Carefully, he reaches over to take Sam's hand.

"Sam, if I thought this was going to end any other way then me seeing you again, I wouldn't be strong enough to stand."

xx

Time in the training center rolls by, Sam and the rest of the tributes bulking up, Kurt doing his best not to break down and keep Sam and the other girl on the upsell. Interviews come and go, and Sam does his best to charm the pants off of Caesar Flickerman, telling a story about collecting a flock of scattered chicks around his family's pen, and breaking into laughter in the middle of it. That wins him capitol favor, and from what Kurt hears he does well in training, avoiding the other tributes and never breaking focus.

When Sam scores a solid 8 on his rating scale, the announcer mentions that it was easy to tell Sam was being trained by last year's victor, Kurt Hummel. They share a confused glance, and decide to take it as a compliment.

xx

It's the day before the games when Sam stops Kurt mid-flash card. They're alone together, in Sam's room where Kurt is grilling Sam on plants of edible and inedible nature. Sam doesn't do well with remembering words, so they're going with pictures and a simple, easy to remember system of "Eat" vs "Do Not Eat." They're about half way through the deck when Sam stops Kurt, and starts to stand up.

"What, what is it?" Kurt asks, still in full mentor mode. They're hours away from the games and Kurt's long since stopped pretending he's concentrating on anything but Sam's survival. Sam breaks him out of his trance however, and beckons for Kurt to get up. While he does, Sam strides across the room to shut his door, and Kurt's eyebrows all but launch off his forehead.

"Are you insane?" He hisses as Sam turns back to him. "There are a lot of things you need to be concentrating on and this is not-"

"No, hold on." Sam says, strangely calm. Kurt watches him, gaze scrutinizing, as Sam reaches for his hand. "C'mere."

Kurt, despite wanting to get back to his plants, does as he's asked and gets up, walking stiffly over to where Sam leads him. It's a window, a spectacular one with a grand view of the capitol. That is, until Sam punches in a combination into a pad on the side, and the capitol transforms into a sweeping view of an ocean. Kurt almost gasps, looking between Sam and the window before reaching out and pressing his fingertips to the cool glass.

He's taken aback as Sam reaches an arm around his waist and pulls him close. It's the first time in a week that Kurt's felt Sam close, and he isn't at al surprised what a comfort it is.

"Tomorrow is happening." Sam says, and Kurt's blood runs cold.

"I know." Kurt replies, not breaking eye contact with the sea.

"And. And I know we like to say, we like to pretend that, we give ourselves a lot of credit, and-"

"I know." Kurt says again, his chest feeling heavy. This isn't a conversation he wants to have. These aren't thoughts he's let himself think.

"This. This might be my last day with you."

Kurt's heart is hammering against his chest. He wants to reply again with 'I know,' but he can't. He can't make any words come. Sam's hand finds his and Kurt holds it tight.

"Sam," he says, his voice shaking, but Sam starts again.

"I know we joked about it at home, about never being free, about never seeing the world. And we won't." He cuts himself off as his breathing starts to get heavy and his eyes start to water. "But. We can pretend. We can pretend that, just for once, things will be okay. That there's no holes in the coop and the kids aren't fighting, that there's no nightmares or memories. That it's just us, you and me, and the ocean."

When Kurt looks at him, he sees tears streaming down Sam's face. And like it's some kind of validation, Kurt feels tears in his eyes too, and he lets the warmth roll down his cheeks.

"Will you pretend with me?" Sam asks, turning to take Kurt's other hand. Kurt nods, and tilts his head up to meet Sam's kiss.

And Kurt lets himself pretend. He stops thinking about the capitol and district ten and what's happening tomorrow. The only thing in his life is Sam and the sand under their feet. He imagines the salty breeze brushing against his skin, and the sun's heat warming him through. He holds Sam close, breathing him, feeling where he sun has kissed his shoulders and hearing the ocean's murmur in his every breath.

And for a few seconds the world stops, and they're together, and they're happy.

Until there's a knock on the door, beckoning them out for dinner and their final interviews. Sam pulls back slowly, and Kurt watches him. They don't say a thing as they gather their things, Kurt fixing Sam's buttons, Sam collecting the cards he knows front and backwards.

It's only as they leave the room that Kurt remembers to let go of Sam's hand.


	4. Four

Sam is injured within the first minute of the games. Kurt almost screams in public and starts to wonder how soon he can get a sponsor to drop a parachute. He's never felt a sharper lightning bolt of fear in his life (that he lets himself remember,) and he almost passes out on the floor. Sam fares better, dodging the next attack and spinning out of the way.

Thirty seconds into the games and both Sam and Kurt are almost done for.

xx

Kurt had the option to see Sam before he left that morning, but turned it down. Instead he shook hands politely with the other district ten girl, whose name turned out to be Sugar, and told her he had faith in her.

She'd all but spit in his face before turning to leave.

It was still better than facing Sam again and saying goodbye. He hoped Sam felt the same way.

After that, he'd been ushered into a large room filled with capitol citizens, dressed to the nines and bustling in cheerful excitement. Being a mentor, he was led to the front row, in front of a screen large enough to eclipse his home back in district ten. He was to stay there, surrounded by other mentors, for the opening of the games.

His face was the picture of cold disinterest, almost boredom, as he surveyed the blank screen and the room around him. Later on he'd be allowed to go around, mingle, but at that point it was just Kurt and the screen, and somewhere far away, Sam preparing for the ring.

The muscles in his face strained to remain placid as Kurt's body felt like it was curling into itself, turning away like a scared child.

Finally the room lowered to a hush, the capitol emblem fading off the screen, replaced with the first look of the arena. Marshland as far as the eye could see. No dry ground for miles, with the cornucopia placed in the middle of what would be a field, were it not submerged in a thick layer of mud and moss. Kurt tried to run through his mind what Sam would have learned about this, but his mind was a blank slate. There were ooh's and aah's around the room as the tributes began to rise from their platforms.

And there was Sam, standing in the same pale brown outfit and black boots as the rest, his face devoid of emotion, his hands at his side. Kurt fought the urge to reach out, to call for him, to give him one last cheer. He was suddenly glad he hadn't said goodbye to Sam, because just seeing him now was physically taxing. He fought the urge to look away, look anywhere but his boy.

The countdown began, the numbers reached single digits. Kurt held his breath. Sam didn't move. The overhead read out the numbers, three, two, one. A canon sounded, the tributes took off.

Sam bolted for a pack on the outer edges , the mud bogging down his steps. He reached it just in time for a boy from district three to swing a sword much too large for his skinny arms at Sam, catching him under the arm as the larger boy windmilled away.

Kurt saw red. His face drained of it.

xx

Sam keeps his composure better however, scooping up his pack and sprinting off towards a group of tall pines. He finds his footing a few seconds later and breaks into stride, and just like that, he's escaped the bloodbath.

It isn't until he feels a poke on the shoulder from the mentor of the district nine tributes that Kurt realizes he has tears pouring down his face.

Terrified at his own slip up, he regains composure almost immediately, scrubbing the tears off with his sleeve and making a noise thatis supposed to be a laugh. The District Nine mentor looks sympathetic, nodding and patting his leg.

"First games are always the toughest," She sympathizes. Kurt nods.

You have no idea.

"It's the first minute that really gets to me." He says, covering his face.

She makes another sympathetic noise and turns back to the screen. Kurt fights to control his breathing as he does as well.

On screen, the cameras continue to survey the bloodbath, and Kurt finds it much easier to look away once Sam's not in immediate danger. He begins to shiver at the sounds of the arena, so familiar to the ones he'd heard only a year ago. He does what he can, taking deep breaths and plugging his ears, but there's no escaping the familiar terror climbing his spine.

He forces himself to watch the white tile floor, breathing in through his nose and out his mouth, waiting for the screen to show Sam again.

xx

Thirteen deaths in the first hour. Ten from the cornucopia followed by two bleeding out, and one boy trying to climb a tree and slipping on the bark. More than once Kurt covers his mouth, gagging and shutting his eyes. He gets stares from the crowd around him, but he finds he can only look up once the cameras find Sam again, a few feet up a tree and taking deep breaths.

Kurt's stomach turns for what must be the thousandth time that day as Sam lifts his arm, studying the gash that had got him just above a rib. From what Kurt can see it's not deep, but that doesn't make it any less life threatening. Again, he can feel his fingers buzzing, the deep seeded need to help Sam, to send him something to help him, and let him know he's doing well.

He doesn't of course, he's not an idiot and wouldn't have himself be known as the mentor who cashed out his sponsor savings an hour into the games, but there are moments that he considers it, as Sam sheds his outer jacket and begins to tug at the hem of his shirt.

He didn't grab a weapon, Kurt notices as he has to tear a strip across the bottom of his shirt with his teeth. Not even a knife.

But we went over this. He'll know to get one. He'll know everything. He has to.

He tells himself this as Sam looks through his pack again, huffing, before lifting up his arm and shirt and carefully pressing the square of ripped fabric against the cut. His pained hiss echoes through the room, but he doesn't flinch, pressing the fabric hard, and then hold his arm awkwardly pressed to the side of his body, and Kurt realizes he's applying pressure, just as he was taught to.

Good. Kurt breathes, for what he thinks is the first time in hours.

After Sam gathers his things and makes his way down to the ground, the camera switches to cover a district five boy in another sector. Kurt's nerves raise again, though every second there isn't a canon is a second he's grateful for.

The rest of the day is uneventful, the tributes slowly exploring the arena but meeting no new deaths. Some kids team up, some go at it alone. Sam follows Kurt's strict instructions and continues looking for a place to meet the basic necessities, the most important of these being running water. Every once in a while he'll stop and adjust his bandage or pause to catch his breath, but he's moving surefooted and fast, and that's all he needs to do.

More than once while walking he'll turn his head, looking up and around until he thinks he's spotted a camera, and then continuing on his way. Kurt's heart jumps when he does, because he knows it's the only way Sam can talk to him, and he has to pretend he doesn't notice. He reads every glance though, as well as he can. As far as he can tell, each time he looks up is a time he's telling Kurt he's still alive.

xx

Kurt's in his capitol bedroom when the sun outside, and in the arena, starts to set. He feels drained and exhausted, but it's nothing compared to how Sam looks. He's done as well as he can with the arena, found a small patch of dry land surrounded by pines, curling up on a pile of needles.

In the gathering darkness he tries one more time to find a camera, this time failing and looking towards nothing. It's dim, and Kurt's not sure if he even sees it right, but he swears he sees Sam whisper goodnight hummingbird.

Kurt's nightmares are particularly violent and detailed that night.

xx

Sam's name is the first thing on Kurt's lips in the morning. He's saying it as he bolts upwards, fingers gripping the sheets and pulse racing as he looks around, once again finding himself in the capitol hotel room. He waits for his pulse to die down, for thoughts to come clear into his mind before looking around, making sure he's really okay this time. Sun drifts in through a far window and Kurt assures himself that he's okay, and that Sam's alive.

Until it hits him that the nightmares he had could at least be a little true, and he's not seen Sam since last night.

He pulls himself out of bed and dresses quickly, for the first time in a long time not even bothering to comb his hair before making his way out of his room and into the main suite, where a large screen projects the games stats. Kurt's legs go weak as the first thing he reads is,

"Tributes Remaining: 13 "

Sam. He whispers it, begging the camera to pan back to his face or for the bar scrolling at the bottom of the screen to read off the name of the dead. He has no such luck, the recap of the night won't start for another half hour. A half hour he spends pacing, heart pounding, denying food and sipping at black coffee like it's a lifeline.

The first thing they show after the capitol anthem is a boy from district four gathering bright red berries and popping them into his mouth in the dark of night. Kurt recognizes them right away, one will make you vomit, two will make you ill, three or more will kill you. He eats around ten, and his name and rating show up on screen, followed by "Deceased."

Kurt feels like he can breathe again.

He waits around the suite until they show Sam, who has been on his feet since sunrise. There's a quick shot of him cornering a frog in a dense puddle of mud, grabbing it and letting it slide out of his hands once, twice, before he gets a hold and snaps its neck. It's small, hardly a meal and covered in dirt, but Sam looks pleased with himself. The recap moves to someone else and Kurt turns to get ready, he'll be expected in the spectators gala soon, where he can get in good with the sponsors.

He's stopped, however, by Sue. She's frowning at him, looking angry.

"What?" Kurt asks in a half rush, not wanting to Sam to be left without his attention for long. The woman rolls her eyes and points to the screen, and Kurt turns to see that the female district ten tribute is still alive, and her recap is playing.

"You're making this a lot harder on yourself by caring about one of them," snaps the mentor before stalking away. "The cameras would like it if you could even pretend to care about them both."

As Kurt hurriedly runs a brush through his hair and picks through a selection of capitol suits, it hits him that he doesn't care what the cameras want or what looks good. That's what being detached was for, that was what saying that Sam could lose was for. Now the games are started, and there is no more pretending.

xx

Sam manages to fly under the radar for the next few days, living off of the fact that more dramatic things are happening to other tributes. While children from districts four and five battle scaled beasts that slither out from under boggy mud, Sam loses a boot to a mudhole. A girl from district one hunts down a boy from two, staying perched in the tall branches of a dead tree until he wanders into her path, and she kills him and robs him blind. Sam has a run in with a little girl from district eight who tries feebly to take him out with a pickaxe, and he almost responds violently before stopping himself. He catches the axe in her swing and pulls it out of her hand, hastily shoving her to the ground before sprinting off.

Kurt's seen him do the same thing with his little brother the time he got a hold of a big stick.

By the end of the first week in the arena Sam's looking gaunt, having lived off of little more than frogs cooked over quick fires and a small stream that feeds into a much deeper sinkhole that Sam doesn't stray towards. He doesn't stray anywhere really, not when there are only five tributes left. His pickaxe proves useful as he catches a toothy mudbeast in the nose and eats what he can of it that night.

He's always on his guard and reacts to any noise, and every night before he tucks himself into his bed of pine needles, he whispers goodnight hummingbird, and Kurt tells inquiring minds that it must be for someone back home.

xx

Sam's out past the normal ring of his range when it happens. Kurt can almost feel something coming as he sits in the gala. The camera hovers on the blond boy as he stalks through the marshland, eyeing plants on the bank of a sloggy river that is more dirt than water. Kurt waits for it to switch to a tribute as it does almost every minute on the dot, but it doesn't. Kurt's stomach takes a dip. A second later, Sam makes a move towards a bundle of bright green leaves. He grabs them pulling them up to reveal three fat, white onions.

The camera stays on his face, happy to the point of glowing as he collects his prize before dashing for his usual site. Kurt's stomach twists uneasily, and the rest of the crowd around him begin to titter, echoing his speculation. Sam on screen, starved and impatient, doesn't share their concern. He washes off the dirt in his stream and settles back, lifting one to his mouth.

As soon as his teeth touch the skin the root bursts, and a thick gray fluid coats his hands, his mouth, and as Sam reels back and tries to wipe it away, his eyes.

"Sam!" Kurt shouts, almost involuntarily. He feels the eyes of the room on him and his skin grows hot, but he's not even paying attention as Ceasear's voice follows Sam stumbling around the ring, informing the watchers of dangerous trap food, things that look harmless enough, but pack a surprise. This one, he suggests, is a kind of acidity that angers and puffens the skin. And sure enough, as Sam falls face first into the stream, clawing at his eyes, his skin is red and swollen already.

Kurt's on his feet within seconds, telling himself not to panic while panicking, to breathe as he wheezes for air, begging Sam to stay calm and hidden while he unsteadily runs for the gala of sponsors. When he reaches them, they watch him with a particular amusement, eyebrows perked and lips pursed as Kurt addresses them.

"Ah, Mister Hummel," Says a woman with sky blue tinted skin and emerald green eyes, "I've been wondering when we were to expect your presence."

"Yes, well," Kurt says, remembering that he has to be cold, detached, as flippant as someone who does this for sport rather than necessity. He tucks his fear and pounding heart under the bored façade that's long since ruined and asks point blank.

"Do you think there's anything you can do for my tribute, a gift to spare?" If not, he'll be forced to count on donations from other districts, ten foremost. And as much as Ten loves its tributes, Kurt knows the medicine he'll buy with that won't compete to capitol funded ones.

"Perhaps." Answers a man with a ruby studded beard, "But your tribute has proven to be quite uninteresting, almost boring. I wonder if it would even be worth saving his life."

It would! It would! Kurt screams in his mind, keeping his outer cool as best he can.

"Well, there's no other way to find out than to let him live, is there? Time is dwindling for them and I'm sure Sam will have an adventure or two in front of him yet."

He keeps his hands behind his back to keep the sponsors from seeing them shaking.

There's a weighted pause, and then the original woman picks up a glass, tipping it in Kurt's direction.

"Very well," She says, "I'll pledge for your antidote. Don't make me regret it."

A few others agree as well, and as fast as Kurt's legs can take him he's having the salve sent in, his attached message reading only "Stay hidden, stay quiet, survive. -K"

He hates himself for not signing Hummingbird.

xx

Sam only finds the parachute because it lands about a foot in front of him. When Kurt sees him again he gasps, the boy's face is swelled up and angry red, the skin around his eyes almost red and puffy enough to look permanently shut, hands just as bad. He's sore and purple and breathing audibly through his mouth, and when the silver parachute lands outside the outcropping of rock he's hidden himself behind, his pickaxe strikes before he does.

When Sam realizes it is help however, he pounces. His round fingers fight it open, and he holds the notice inches away from his eyes before dipping into the salve he'd been sent. Kurt watches, wanting nothing more than to be there with him, helping him.

Sam applies it to his eyes first, the swelling going down within seconds. The skin is still purple and not at all healthy, but Sam looks relieved so Kurt is too. He coats his hands and the area around his mouth too, and soon he looks almost like Sam again, if Sam had been stung by a hundred bees.

But the medicine seems to gives him strength or willpower to relocate back to his bed of needles, the most sheltered place he has access to. From there he collapses, letting the medicine take effect. Kurt thinks he mouths something, but Sam's lips took the worst hit and it's hard to tell.

He thinks it's a thank you.

xx

Sam loses two days in the arena due to the burns. He has a usual schedule of changing where he is, sometimes exploring, working to avoid other tributes, but with his eyes and hands made useless, he stays confined to the small area of the pines near the stream. He doesn't eat and ventures out for water once before a fire to boil it in becomes too hard to manage. He applies the medicine and waits while the rest of the tributes slowly begin to close in on each other.

Kurt doesn't sleep for more than three hours on end, he consumes only coffee, and watches. He monitors where each tribute is and guesses how long it will take them to find him. When he's not in the view of people he pulls at his hair or dry heaves, almost already convinced that this is the end of the other half of his heart.

During Sam's recuperating time, two more lives are taken in the arena. One is a gruesome, bloody fight to the death between the lone district one competitor and a genetically enhanced alligator, the other a psychological stalking as the girl from district two takes another victim.

Then there are three left, and by all accounts Sam has only made it this far by luck. Kurt knows it will be over soon.

By the dawn of the third day, the eleventh day all together, both boys are wrecked and weak, but Kurt has long since stopped caring about his well being. He's all Kurt thinks about, last thought before sleep and first thought in the morning and frequent guest in his nightmares. Kurt almost refuses to acknowledge that there was a time where he cared about himself more than Sam.

The first think Kurt sees on the eleventh morning is Sam shuffling to his feet, smearing on the last of the salve and taking a few nervous steps outside of his hiding spot. The skin on his hands and around his eyes is bright pink and young, creating a patchwork of scars and old tan and new medicated skin. Kurt almost celebrates at this however, because Sam is, for the first time in days, standing and moving and alive.

The blond boils and drinks four cupfuls of water, searches the banks for frogs but has no luck, and sets off, away from where he's been laying. Away from safety.

He's three steps into a tall, dense woodland when a twig snaps behind the boy and Sam swings around, his pickaxe in hand. I buries itself deep into the ribs of the girl from district two, and both tributes scream.

Sam tries to right his wrong as the girl doubles over, pulling on the handle of his weapon. But it only does more damage and the girl shrieks. From his seat in the gala, Kurt can see it all. He can see the fear, the horror on Sam's face as he drops the pickaxe altogether, and it follows the girl as she collapses to the ground. Right in the ribs in line with her lungs, his first blow would have been enough to kill her. But by troubling it, yanking it that much harder, she bleeds out in seconds, and her cannon echoes around the arena.

Sam falls to his knees, tears bubbling up over his eyes, and he only remembers to pick up his axe when the hovercraft begins to lift the girl's body.

He sits there for a second, looking at where she'd been standing, at his own hands, and lets out one more choked sob.

"I'm sorry." He says. His first words in eleven days.

And then he turns around and keeps walking, steps unsteady and weak, his tears obviously bothering his new skin.

xx

At the end of the day the ruby bearded man finds Kurt and tells him he's pleased with Sam's style, and that Kurt can afford him a reward if he so wishes.

"I'll be pleased to see what tomorrow brings us."

Kurt sends Sam a helping of food with the money, sweet things that Sam loves and salted things and soup and meat. What he wants to send Sam is himself, or words of comfort about the fact that he had to do it, and that he'd been protecting his own life. But those words don't fit on his slip of paper, so he sends instead, come home bumblebee.

When Sam gets his reward he ignores it, huddling under a small lean-to with his knees clutched to his chest. Until he gets the note.

His eyes glance over the piece of paper three times before he reacts, but then he looks up, not at all trying to hide the fact that he's looking for the camera, and nods. He folds the note up and stuffs it in the muddy pocket of his jacket, and hovers his hand over it for a second, before pressing it into his heart.

"I will." He says. "I will."

He turns to his food and Kurt turns towards his bed, and neither of them see the other's eyes drop for a moment, both of them thinking the same thing.

_I hope._


	5. Five

It's not until morning that Kurt works out what the ruby bearded man meant when he said he was looking forward to tomorrow. It was hanging in the air that the games would end soon, Capitol citizens were impatient and the two remaining tributes never circled each other for long, but it wasn't until he was walking out into the lobby of the suite, until he saw Sam's face on one side of the screen, and the face of the other tribute on the other, that he realized what had happened.

The caption under the photo read "Two of District Ten's children remain, but only one can go home."

Sugar was the other tribute.

xx

As Kurt's hurried out the door to do an Offical Pre-showdown interview, he racks his mind for how this could have happened, or how he could have overlooked every tribute to die yet. He thinks back to the games, tries to think of a name or a face, but every person is only known by their threat level against Sam, how they would do in a fight, and how they would outlast him if they were starving. Nothing had stopped Kurt from lumping Sugar in with them, and he'd continued to gloss over her as she got closer and closer to Sam's inner circle.

And now it was between them, the final battle, the one tribute that would make it back to district ten. And as much as Kurt tries to, he can't bring himself to think as the girl as anything but an obstacle for Sam to tackle. Of course, when they line him and his former mentor up in front of twin microphones, he doesn't say this.

"I'm happy that both of our tributes have made it this far," He says behind his icy façade, "And I'll be glad to see either of them come home."

His words settle in, and it's Sue who rolls her eyes and turns to him with an angry glare.

"Oh please, Porcelain. Don't pretend you will be anything but utterly defeated if it's not the patchwork monster who doesn't make it out. You didn't know the other girl's name before she left for the arena."

Eyes turn to Kurt, cameras following. He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. For the faintest of heartbeats he considers spilling it all. That Sam is his, that he's Kurt's anchor and safety. That it's his words that comfort him when nothing else can, and that the very idea of Sam dead chills him to the bone.

But one look at the other mentor, at the capitol, and he knows that letting them know would be nothing but an excuse for a rock to "Slip" under Sam's foot, or for a trap to exact itself right where Sam falls. Already, Kurt blames himself for the eleven days Sam's spent in the ring. If he knows it's the pure fault of himself that Sam dies, he won't be able to live with himself.

"Sam and I have things in common, and we worked well together in training. If that somehow means that he is more "My" tribute, so be it."

He tosses a glare back to the other mentor, who holds her ground with a stiff shrug.

"Sugar won't be afraid to kill Sam, and she wants to come home. I trained her well, and my favor will stay with her."

Kurt doesn't budge, just nods and allows the crowd to quiet and the microphones to be turned off. The crowd is beckoned into the grand gala, and things begin to disperse quickly. Sue matches Kurt's footsteps with her tall sharp capitol books, and Kurt only just hears her hissing above the din of the room.

"You better hope you trained your bumblebee well, hummingbird."

And when Kurt's certain there's not a person who will hear him within several yards, he feels his hold over his thoughts snap, and he retorts "Sam will do anything to get back to me. To his family. I know he can make it."

"How inspiring." She clucks as she starts to walk away, shaking her head and muttering "First year mentors. Still believing in luck and hope."

He wasn't believing in luck or hope though, he thinks to himself as he continues into his seat.

He was believing in Sam.

xx

There was nothing of interest in the recaps, Sam had slept until a few hours ago, when he'd ventured off to find food. The same had gone for Sugar, and the morning had led to them realizing the arena was collapsing around them, the land that wasn't plateau'd leading down into a thick, absorbent sinkhole that, as Sam dropped a rock in and observed, would quickly and easily swallow anything within it.

The ring had been shrinking all morning, and now the two tributes were within a mile of each other, and getting closer rapidly. Things quickly become less and less about provisions, and more about the moment when the other tribute comes into sight.

Sam, on one side of the screen, holds his axe close, though he's shaking visibly. Kurt's fingers twitch, he wants to talk to him, one last pep talk to tell him how proud he is, how happy he is that he's made it this far. He even wants to lie to him and say that if it is Sugar who comes home, he'll be happy Sam made it this far.

But he's restricted to waiting, watching, impatient and on edge, with a string of words he may never get to say to Sam on the edge of his tongue.

There's a map that runs along the bottom of the screen that shows the distance between the two tributes. Both are represented by glowing red dots, and both move closer and closer by the second. The quiet chatter in the room dies down to a hush as the red dots get closer and closer to each other, as Sam pushes his way out of a swathe of pine trees and Sugar twists around in a dizzy spiral through dead branches.

They both manage to end up in a mud-slick clearing back to back, guards raised and silent, until the slide of a boot against earth turns them around.

For a second Sam looks stunned, Kurt realizes that while being essentially blind for two nights, there'd be no way for him to know who was remaining. Sugar on the other hand jumps to her guard immediately, reaching behind her back to pull out a long silver sword, the edge of it dirty with earth and blood. As the sun gleams against the silver surface, Sam raises his pickaxe.

Neither moves. Behind them, a little more of the arena tumbles into the pit.

"I didn't think I'd be up against you." Sam says as Sugar begins to inch forward, a hunger for victory in her eyes.

"And I didn't think you'd last the first three days. Looks like we both were wrong." Sugar says, shifting her sword higher. Kurt can see how this vulnerable looking fourteen year old could have made it this far, there's nothing in her eyes but the need to win. She inches forward and Sam sets his jaw, lifting his pickaxe a little higher.

"So this is it, a fight to the death. I read a lot of stories like that, back at home."

Kurt's eyes widen. Sam has trouble reading, but Kurt's summer days were filled with reading to him as he constructed a chicken coop. He leans in.

"When I get my home, in the victors village, I'll fill shelves with those books, so my family can read them too. I think about that a lot, in the village. My family was poor, so we always thought about how great it would be to live there. None of us wanted to go through with this though."

Sugar is watching him, suspicious, as he talks. She starts to move forward once but Sam deflects her blow. He keeps talking, only Kurt is nodding along.

"I already know which one I want, too. I think the worst part about losing would be not seeing that house again."

Kurt carefully crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap. He stops nodding and instead concentrates on the warmth spreading through his body.

Me too, Sam. He responds.

Sugar snaps a second later.

"Stop procrastinating!" She yells as she lunges at him, sword high. Sam swings the axe, offsetting the path of the sword and letting it slice through only his clothes, a jagged line down his shoulder that drips red. He looks up at her, still determined, and clocks her on the shoulder with the blunt of the pickaxe. She tumbles away, landing in the mud. She gets up, sneering.

"You do know you have to kill me, you know. Even your precious mentor killed people. That's what these games are for."

She rushes him again and this time catches him hard behind the knee. Sam screams, and Kurt echoes him. Nothing matters right now, his polite words about not caring who won, or the capitol's attention. Only Sam matters, only his leg buckling for a moment and his arm spinning like it's shucking corn, grazing over Sugar's hip. Skin breaks, Sugar laughs.

"You gave it your best shot, Sammy."

Sam only has enough time to right himself as she gains her ground back and swings her sword. Sam uses his good leg to launch himself right, expecting to take the worst of the blow with his stomach. Kurt expects it as well and wants to look away, but can't. Tears prick his eyes. He waits for the red, for it to be over.

The ground buckles underneath Sam's feet and he loses his composure with a shout, body rolling down the sudden slant. Sugar follows with a scream, her sword clattering out of her hands as she grabs for land, fighting the long fall into the gully.

The earth is loose and both tributes fight gravity as they try and find their footing as they roll down, hands digging in and legs kicking. It's a null battle though, as the slant grows deeper and both tumble towards death.

The mud doesn't suck them under as soon as they hit. They have time to fight it, to paddle towards the collapsing plateau, but it's not enough. Every motion sucks them under further, and the capitol watches in horror as they sink to their waists. That's when Sugar freezes, when Sam sees his pickaxe buried in the dirt a few feet away.

Eyes meet, no words are spoken. The tributes turn and twist, forging forward as the mud sucks them under. And then, as they both fight for final inches, both go under.

The ring goes silent, the gala room not moving. Kurt doesn't blink or breathe. The mud settles. The earth stands still.

And then.

A hand, coated with mud, breaks the surface and grasps the handle of the axe. Another paws endlessly at the ledge of solid earth. The pickaxes raises once, twice, three times, and a tribute pulls itself out of the mud. The gala, the world, squints at the shape, covered in grey mud and filth. For a second it just sits there, head resting on the earth, retching up mouthful after mouthful of mud. It makes no effort to identify itself, only breathe.

One minute, two minutes, people begin to discuss. Someone points out the other canon hasn't fired yet, that the tribute under the mud isn't dead yet.

Kurt can feel nothing, not his pulse, his breath, his thoughts. Only the screen exists, only the two red dots on the map.

A canon goes off and one of the dots fades away from the screen, inches away from the other. The mud coated shape continues to cough and shudder.

Sam's stock photo appears on screen, blank.

A second later it's changed to Victor.

Dimly, Kurt's aware of the roar of the crowd, the way the other mentor gets up and throws her hat to the ground and stomps away. There are things going on around him and in the ring as both Sam and Sugar's bodies are collected, but Kurt can't move. For once, for the first time since the day Sam had been reaped, Kurt knows for absolute certain, he will see Sam again.

Were he able to feel it, he's sure he'd feel embarrassed at how the gala witnesses him lean forward and hears the keening sob break from his body. He clutches his knees, almost falls out of his seat, as sobs wrack his body and he feels every muscle in his body go slack.

Part of him wants to stay there, unmoving and sobbing, mask gone, façade depleted, but he knows better. He stands, legs wobbling, and realizes for the first time what he must have looked like. He can't find it in himself to care as he begins to stride towards the doors, towards the hotel, where they'll have Sam once they get him clean. There are cheers and congratulations surrounding him from all sides, but the only one that will matter will be Sam. Sam who he will be able to touch, to hold, to kiss.

Somewhere down the line a capitol aid finds him and directs him towards his suite, where he's informed that Sam is currently being "Fixed", repairing the skin on his face, his scars and bruises, clearing his lungs of the mud he's breathed in. Afterward, Kurt can, will, be taken to see him.

It's a painstaking, almost laughable wait, but Kurt holds through it the way he imagines a parent waits for a child to get up out of their deathbed, free of sickness. The elation cancels out the ticking clock, and Kurt hardly notices that hours have passed between the time he sits down to wait in the suite and the time there's an official calling for him.

"He's still starved and almost dehydrated and weak, but he's been asking for you."

By the time they actually reach the recuperation space Kurt is buzzing with anticipation. He's led down hallway after hallway of cold metallic walls until he's put outside a room with a locked door and a green light hung on it. There's no words, not a moment for Kurt to prepare himself (something he neglected doing for the past few hours,) before a combination is punched in and the door opens.

And there's Sam.

He's standing, on his way back from a smaller room at the other side of the recuperation chamber, and he turns when the doors open. And for a second neither boy moves, because Sam looks so skinny and wrapped up and weak and Kurt's more pale than usual with eyes sunken into his head and heavy purple bags underneath and for a second neither of them no what to do.

And then Sam speaks, a small sound, one that reverberates around the room and into every fiber of Kurt's being.

"Kurt."

And Kurt gets to answer with a voice just as hushed, as though talking any louder will break the moment and make it no longer real.

"Sam."

And he thinks his feet are bringing him forward, it's possible that the earth has begun to spin fast enough to shove him into Sam's arms, but he doesn't concentrate much on it as much as he sinks into the other boy, feeling his arms wrap around his familiar frame, pulling him close as possible and burying his face into the boy's shoulder.

Sam fares no better, Kurt can feel just how weak he is and how much he depends on Kurt's strength to keep him upright, and Kurt takes no problem with that. He's panting into Kurt's shoulder, shaking in his arms and Kurt realizes he's shaking too. They don't move for a long time, Kurt's fingers tracing down the line of Sam's back where the ridges of his spine are sharp against his fingertips, Sam's hands clasping Kurt's back for support.

"I knew you wouldn't leave me, I knew I knew I knew." He whispers. "I knew you would make it, I knew you'd come back."

"You think you could have given me some of that certainty?" Sam asks a second later, and they both break into laughter that's broken by little sobs on either end. Eventually Kurt has to release Sam, let him go back to his bed and rest until he'll be well enough to make it to the coronation. They're unwilling to let each other go though, Sam leaning on Kurt's shoulders until he can collapse on the bed, and clutching Kurt's hand as he gets settled. The capitol assistant asks if Sam wants time alone, reminds him that he'll have to be put back under so that he can rest, but Sam turns them down, asking for Kurt to say.

"We're not doing a very good job of keeping this a secret." Kurt laughs as the assistant leaves the room. Sam holds tight to Kurt's hand.

"Don't leave me." He replies as a tube in his arm starts to pump with clear fluid, and Sam slips back into quiet rest.

xx

For the rest of the day and the one after that, Sam is kept in the recuperation room. Kurt watches as he heals, the little scars and bruises he'd come to know on his body disappearing. His face, which had been a patchwork of shaded and textured skin, had healed over so his skin was no longer baby soft and pink, but the same tan color as the rest of his body, and no longer sensitive to the touch. (They had found this out on a rare moment alone, as Kurt leaned over to kiss Sam gently on the mouth and Sam hadn't instinctively flinched away from the contact.)

More than once, Kurt drifts off while holding Sam's hand, lulled away by the security and silence of it all, and wakes up gasping, terrified that the dream pursuing his mind will be true, and it won't be Sam in front of him, that he won't be growing stronger by the minute, and that he won't be freed from the room within the day.

But sure enough, every time he wakes up Sam's still there, and at the end of the second day he's strong enough to get out of bed and get taken to his stylist, and then, his final interview. All throughout, Kurt is by his side. It almost feels unnatural having Sam walk away from him and into the seat opposite Caesar.

"So," Says the man with the pale blue hair and ageless face, "That was quite an impressive show you put on, congratulations."

Sam nods, humble, as the crowd around him cheers.

"However, there is a question on everyone's mind in this room tonight. Do you know what that is?"

Sam shrugs, looking unsure. Caesar leans in.

"Who, exactly, is Hummingbird?"

A smile crosses Sam's face that makes Kurt's heart pound, but he shrugs it off shyly, in that "I know, but I' not telling," way.

"Someone from back home. Kind of my support system. The person who told me I had to win."

Caesar hums and the audience joins in, their hearts touched.

"Did you promise them that you'd win?" He asks.

"I promised them I'd try." Sam replies.

"And are you excited to see them again?"

Sam looks to the right, hardly for a second and barely noticeable, but the quirk in his lips won't leave. He finally breaks into a grin and nods.

"I can't wait."

The audience cheers and Sam laughs, and back stage Kurt does all he can to not grab at his heart and cheer as well. The interview goes on and Sam holds up as best he can, but he leans heavily on Kurt's shoulder when it's over. After that Sam is crowned, and by the days end they're being told to prepare to board the train in the morning. As the pair sit on Sam's bed in the soft darkness, Sam remarks that it feels like it's only been minutes since he's left the arena.

"And now we're going home, and things will be back to normal." He says, cheerfully, letting his head rest on Kurt's. And for the time being Kurt nods. Because he's never thought of home, of what it would mean for Sam to come back after killing someone and letting another drown. He can't bring himself to say anything, only squeeze Sam's hand and nod along that yes, soon things will be normal.

The next morning Sam leaves his suite with a haunted look in his eyes. As he boards the train, he whispers to Kurt that he dreamt he was back in the arena.


	6. Six

Sam learns the only way there is, that is to say the hard way, that there is no "Normal" after the games. That just because he's got wealth and a house and is alive, that there's no forgetting the feeling that comes with being a victor. He moves in and cries when he sees his family and accepts the mayor's praise, but the look in his eyes as he goes through the motions are all too familiar to Kurt, who is used to seeing them every day in the mirror.

At first he talks openly of his experience. To Kurt, to his parents, to anyone who will listen. He sheds tears as he describes the life he took, and doesn't say anything personal about Sugar. It's almost perplexing to Kurt, how he can go through his day to day routines with such a smile on his face, as though he's truly left the arena behind him. After a while Sam stops talking about the ring all together, and days fall into patterns of being with Kurt, bothering chickens or reading or talking about nothing at all.

If Kurt had thought he'd depended on Sam before, he doesn't know what to call the aftermath of the games. From dawn until dusk they're near each other, and on some strange and rare occasion where they're not, neither denies of thinking of the other. Kurt can't stand not knowing where Sam is, not knowing if he's in a new kind of danger or if something's happened, and Sam says he doesn't feel "right" without the reassuring knowledge that Kurt is watching him, protecting him, even if he doesn't need it.

No one tries to stop them or pretend its anything but a driving need to be together, that for two weeks in their lives they held each other above all else, held faith that one would survive, and the other would make sure of it. And even with the games past there's no leaving it behind, because in that time their worlds had shrunk to each other and the idea of letting anything come between them is unthinkable.

But it isn't long after Sam stops talking about the games that he stops talking at all. He stops smiling at little things like the cheep of a chick or a flower given to him. He stops talking as much and his eyes lose brightness, and Kurt knows something's wrong when Sam won't even speak to him. And it's when they're alone together in the back yard of Sam's home right next to Kurt's, resting under the shade of an oak tree and listening to the wind, Sam looks and Kurt and asks, "Is it ever over?"

And Kurt can't lie to him, or won't, when he meets Sam's eyes and shakes his head. He see's Sam nod somberly and get lost in his thoughts again. Kurt reaches over and takes Sam's hand, celebrating the warmth his palm presents and squeezing hard as he feels how fast Sam's heart is beating. Sam squeezes back, tight.

He's silent for a little while more, and then he turns to look at Kurt.

"There was a time in those games that I didn't want to win."

And Kurt supposes it doesn't make sense, but his stomach sinks and his heart starts to pound, as though Sam's words will take them back to the capitol, the arena. Nothing happens of course, but still Kurt can hardly muster a weak "Oh."

Water fills Sam's eyes and he stops looking at Kurt, instead watching the leaves rattle in the breeze. His chest rises and falls rhythmically and he opens his mouth.

"When you're on your own, when you've only got your own thoughts to keep you company, it gets a little hard to remember what you made up and what you're sure of. And I- I started thinking a lot, about whether or not anyone wanted to win, about if my family would be proud of me or if you would still want me after this was all over."

Kurt's eyes are watering as well and he tries to interrupt Sam, tell him he never, not once felt that way, but Sam doesn't let him.

"The closer I got to winning, the more convinced I got that you guys didn't want me home. I don't know if it was the starvation or the paranoia, but every day it got harder and harder to think about you and not feel guilty. When I said goodnight to you, I was imagining you rolling your eyes and turning around. I didn't want to disappoint you."

"Sam," Kurt turns to run a hand through the boy's hair, tears sliding freely down his face as he shakes his head, "That's not-"

"I know." Sam says, sounding haunted. "I know that now. But back then, it was different. After I got burned and you sent me the medicine, I spent two days telling myself you didn't hate me, that you would be happy to see me."

He pauses again.

"And then I killed that girl."

Kurt's hand stills, and he can see the ridges around Sam's nose start to redden and his breathing picking up. The hand holding his tightens and Kurt nods, knowing all too familiarly the hollow ache that taking a life leaves behind. He doesn't try and speak anymore, knowing how badly Sam needs to get these words out.

"And that was it." Sam says, defenses breaking. He hics a little sob and tries to wipe away his tears, but more come in their stead. He moves to get up, turning his back to Kurt but the other boy follows the motion, his arm coming to rest against Sam's shoulders.

"I was sure you wouldn't want me back after that. I knew no one from Ten would either. I thought the day after that would be the day I died, and everyone would be rid of me."

Kurt doesn't say anything, just holds him as his words break forth like a broken dam.

"And when your parachutes came, I figured it would be you, telling me not to come back. I read it getting ready for the worst, but instead…instead you told me to come home. You called me bumblebee."

"You are bumblebee." Kurt replies quietly, whispering into the cloth on Sam's shoulder. "You're my bumblebee."

Sam laughs lightly through his tears.

"So I decided to fight. I figured out later that night that there were only two of us left, and I knew you wanted me home. I didn't know if I had a shot but I decided to go for it. For you."

Kurt nods, eyes still brimming with tears. He thinks that's the end, that Sam's got it all off his chest. When Sam opens his mouth again, he has to try twice before he can get the words out.

"Wh. Whe. When me and Sugar went under the mud, Sugar found the surface first. I didn't know what way was up or down, but I felt her start to kick up, and I knew she'd found the edge.

And I knew it was the end if I didn't do something. I only had a second to decide, and I had to think about everything. But all I could think about was you. That you told me to come home. So when I started to move, it wasn't because of anything but you. You were above the mud, and I had to get to you."

Kurt doesn't move. Sobs ripple through Sam's body as he finishes talking.

"I grabbed Sugar and I pulled her down, and I used her as a lever. It's my fault she's dead."

And there are a thousand things Kurt can say, many of them make it to the edge of his lips. But he doesn't let them go, instead holding Sam's shoulder and letting him heave out more shaky sobs. When Kurt doesn't make a sound, Sam turns to him.

"You're not gonna tell me that she would have killed me too, or that I had to do it?" He asks in a nervous voice. Kurt blinks slowly, and turns to face Sam.

"I don't have to. You're going to be telling yourself that for the rest of your life."

"Oh." Sam's eyes flick downward, his face a range of emotions.

"But I can say," Kurt starts, watching Sam's lip quiver, "That if you hadn't done that, then I can't say where I'd be right now. Every second of those games was either spent by me thinking about how you could win, or not letting myself think about what would happen if you lost. I need you, Sam Evans, and I can't imagine a world without you.

So when you think about the arena, and you will think about it every day for the rest of your life, you can tell yourself that I'm here. And you can know there's at least one person in the world that has been scarred by the things that scarred you, and who will never think of you as anything but his own."

There's more Kurt has to say, but it gets cut off as Sam leans over and presses his lips to Kurt's, drawing out a shuddering breath as he does so. His mouth tastes like the salt of his tears but Kurt hardly notices as he kisses back, fiercely, demandingly. Sam yields for a moment, letting Kurt cup the back of his head with the arm slung around his shoulders and parts his lips. He kisses back harder a second later, holding Kurt close and not letting go, enjoying the smell of his skin and the gentle touch of his hands. After a few moments of each other's closeness, they fall back until they're hidden from the eyes of the world, surrounded only by grass and the open sky.

And Kurt knows Sam has no idea the life that awaits him, just as Kurt had thought he'd ever know the meaning of "Normal" again. He can't begin to think about the tangible nightmares and the smells and the glares of light that shouldn't look like swinging weapons, but do. All of them haunting Sam as well.

It's hardly been a year since Kurt's games, only months past Sam's, but it feels like years. Next year, both of them will have to return to the capitol again to train another pair of tributes. The path is unspeakably long and there's hardly a happy ending in sight. The world will never cease offering up its hardships, no matter how long they try and avoid it.

But as they lie together in the grass, in the moment suspended in time and the sun, they can take comfort in at least one thing. Never will they have to go at it alone.


End file.
